


Feathers

by megyal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Transformation, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-24
Updated: 2009-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:17:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Prompt from <span><a href="http://b-o-w-a.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://b-o-w-a.livejournal.com/"><b>b_o_w_a</b></a></span>: <i>Harry couldn't see, but he could feel. Feel the wings, the soft touch...the love.</i>; kinks: wings, blindfold, secrets].<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://rounds-of-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[**rounds_of_kink**](http://rounds-of-kink.livejournal.com/). Vaguely based on the myth of Cupid and Psyche.

> They shout his name at every turn and he tries to flee from the flashes of their cameras, their eager questions, their reverent touches. Harry doesn't like to be touched by people who he doesn't know very well; when Mrs. Weasley had hugged him tightly that first time, he had been unsure of where to put his hands, and had relaxed only when she had released him. Mrs. Weasley's expression had been understanding without being too overwhelming with pity and he had been grateful to her for that. Even Hermione and Ron know that he can withstand physical affection for only so long, before he politely tries to squirm out of reach.
> 
> Hermione says it is because he had not received hugs and kisses as a child, that every touch Harry knew had consisted of slaps and pinches and... this is the point where Hermione can't breathe properly, due to her overwhelming outrage and Ron's fists clench almost against his will.
> 
> "It's alright," he always tells them, amused and comforted. "It doesn't matter now."
> 
> It kind of matters, though. He didn't grow up in the Wizarding world. If he had, the magical folk would have had access to him and he might have become accustomed to the attention, to their stares at his scar (it has faded, but not completely) and their need to make sure he's real: _The_ Harry Potter, Vanquisher and Hero, right in front of them doing something mundane as buying new dress-robes.
> 
> He tries to slip away gracefully, cursing himself for turning down Ron's offer to accompany him; but Harry was never elegant on his feet and so he stumbles out of the shop and into Diagon Alley, looking around wildly as the crowd tumbles out after him. They ask him to touch this cloth or kiss this baby, _please Harry Potter_ , and instead of walking away with dignity, Harry is overwhelmed by the press of their bodies and simply flees.
> 
> It's not his best moment, he isn't afraid to admit it. Here he is, the Boy Who Died to Live Again, running away from a mob. It's just that... they want a piece of him, he can see it in their eyes and he can't afford to give away any more of himself. He's finite, he's just one person and he's done so much already.
> 
> He might not move like he flies, but Harry has always been _fast_ (all that practice of escaping from Dudley's clutches). He barrels down the alley, slipping between magical families and breaking through clasped hands of lovers as if he's finishing a race. He turns quickly down a narrow lane, a stitch cutting into his side; a cry escapes him when he makes another turn and realizes that this part of the maze is dead-end. There are no windows, just brooding brick walls. Harry is too upset to Apparate, his mind is flying in too many directions at once and he realizes, in a very abstract way, that he is in the middle of a panic attack.
> 
> He turns helplessly and then closes his eyes as he hears the excited voices of the crowd nearing his trapped position. The pain in his side is joined by one in his chest as he backs up against the wall.
> 
> He is expecting a cold, hard surface, so he jumps when his back presses against the warmth of another body. He tries to turn, but he is seized around the upper arms and held still.
> 
> "No!" He fights, but the hold is unyielding. Harry feels his magic tremble in his veins and he is about to let it do what it will, go wild and damn the consequences. Then, something large and soft wraps around him from head to toe, obscuring his vision.
> 
> "Be still," a voice rasps behind him; whomever it is, they sound as if they have difficulty speaking. "They... will not see you."
> 
> "What?" Harry is confused, for he can hear his pursuers and they are not less than ten feet away from where he is now, exclaiming loudly.
> 
> "Shhh," his protector admonishes softly and Harry stays still, waiting for his heart-rate to slow down and his breathing to even out. There are spells being cast outside this impromptu cocoon, but they do not seem to detect him and this strange companion. He pulls his head back a little, so he can see what has been draped around him and blinks: feathers, long and interlaced right in front of his nose. The upper feathers are shorter and are the colour of powdered snow. The ones at the end are far longer, but are almost completely black, except where they are edged in white.
> 
>  _Are these wings?_ he wonders and lifts a hesitant hand, barely touching a black feather. The body pressed against his back trembles and the feathers shift soundlessly. Harry wants to touch again, but he doesn't risk it, not until his pursuers have dispersed. They do so, but very slowly.
> 
> "They... are gone," his rescuer notes laboriously, and the hands that had been clamped on Harry's upper arms loosen and then move away; the feathers separate and part, folding behind and out of Harry's line of sight. However, when Harry tries to turn around, to look at the person that had protected him, he is held in place again by his arms.
> 
> "No," the person says harshly. "Don't look at me."
> 
> "Why not?" Harry makes another attempt to turn but now hands are on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the curve of his neck. "Who are you?"
> 
> There is a strange sound, like leaves moving over cobblestone and Harry realizes that it is laughter; there is a self-derisive quality about it.
> 
> "It doesn't matter. I'm going to leave. Do not look at me. It is... frightening." The hands move away from his neck and Harry finds it strange that he misses the warmth of those fingers.
> 
> "Wait... thank you," Harry says awkwardly. "I won't look, if that's what you want. But thank you, so much. How, um, how can I repay you?"
> 
> There is no answer, just a great flurry of displaced air. Harry keeps his promise and doesn't look up, but he stoops to retrieve a long white-edged black feather from the ground.

  
Ron and Hermione pulled back from Harry's memory swirling in the Pensieve and blinked at him. They were in the second floor girls' lavatory, ignoring Myrtle's loud sulking; Harry was seated on the counter, swinging his legs idly. He reached out with his wand and retrieved the swirling, gauzy recollections, replacing it with a press of the cool wood to his temple.

"That was a Veela, right?" Harry asked, smiling as she patted down her hair absently. He exchanged a quick glance with Ron, who seemed to get over the vertigo more quickly than most people. "Hermione?"

"Yes, it was. But Harry, when they were chasing you and you had to run away--"

"I know." Harry felt miserable about that. "I know, I'm supposed to be braver, but I couldn't help it, they just kept--"

"No, mate," Ron interjected, putting a hand on Harry's forearm and squeezing briefly before letting go again. "No, that's... it's just that they shouldn't _do_ that. It's disgusting, is what it is." His eyes were worried. "Maybe we should let Shacklebolt give you a proper bodyguard, like he said he would?"

Harry heaved a heavy sigh. He had balked at this before, but after this last experience, the thought of a constant guardian was appealing. "Maybe," he conceded, thinking about the protective cocoon of feathers. "I'll talk to him soon about that... but this Veela?"

Hermione was turning over the feather in her hands, inspecting the shaft and casting a spell that caused a quick series of spiky text to glow above it for just a moment. She looked up and gave them a triumphant grin.

"I think I know who it is."

*

Harry gazed across the Great Hall at the quiet Slytherin table, gaze fixed Draco Malfoy's every move. He watched Malfoy eat his dinner carefully, the way he kept his eyes down on his plate and didn't look up at all, no matter how large a hole Harry's eyes were burning into the side of his head. In Harry's mind, he could see the copies of the _Prophet_ that Hermione had shown him, dated from the middle of the summer, when Harry had been busy setting up a warded flat for himself. One had shown Draco Malfoy and his mother walking quickly away from a packed court-room; another, about a month after their reduced sentencing, had headlines that blared about Draco Malfoy's strange disappearance and the Aurors' interest in his whereabouts. Then, a third issue had a very quiet article about Malfoy's safe return to the Manor, tucked somewhere on the fifth page.

Harry pressed his fingers to his chest; in an inside pocket of his robe, the black and white feather safely rested. Hermione's spell had confirmed that it had come from a young, male creature, with both human and Veela blood. It had even helpfully informed her of the age of the creature and that it had recently gone through a stressful moult. Draco's disappearance coincided with the time-frame of the moult, the trials a likely cause of the stress.

Harry barely heard his friends talking and laughing beside him. He just stared at Malfoy, until even Ron was reduced to dealing him a quick pinch to drag his attention to their conversation.

"Sorry," he muttered and Ron wrinkled his nose. Harry started as Malfoy got up suddenly from his place and left the Hall.

"Harry," Ron warned under his breath as he rose hastily as well. "I wouldn't advise you getting too near a Veela, especially one that's a Malfoy."

"He helped me hide from that crowd," Harry murmured. "I just want to know why he would do something like that."

"Probably to free himself from that Life Debt," Ron grumbled in return. "I don't think crazy fans are comparable to Fiendfyre, though."

Harry shook his head. "I'm going to talk to him, alright?"

"I won't wait up," Ron warned, but Harry smiled at his concerned expression. They both knew this was a complete lie.

He almost sprinted out of the Hall, spotting Malfoy turning a corner far up ahead. Malfoy looked back at him, his grey eyes widening before he swept out of sight. Harry followed him quickly, barely catching the flip of his robes every time Malfoy tried to escape around a corner. Finally, he found himself on the seventh floor, staring at the empty corridor. Taking a deep breath, he walked slowly in front of the tapestry with Barnabas the Barmy, who eyed him curiously as Harry thought about his need to just talk with Malfoy.

The Room of Requirement didn't seem to have a problem with this, as it had when Malfoy had been working desperately on the Cabinet. A simple black door appeared in the cut-stone wall and opened silently under its own power. No lights came on as Harry stepped in; the darkness of the room was so absolute, that it seemed to cover his face like thick cloth.

The door slammed and Harry jumped, whirling around.

"Why did... you come?" The dry-leaves voice rasped. Harry swallowed and faced the sound, taking a step in what he hoped was the right direction.

"Malfoy?" He whispered. "...Draco?"

There was no answer as Harry lifted his hands, feeling in the air for the closest wall; his eyes strained vainly to find some sort of light. He paused when he felt something touch his leg, near to the ankle. Kneeling down and moving very carefully, his fingers brushed against something soft; it shifted against his touch.

"Potter. Leave."

"No," Harry said and gently felt along the shape of soft object, meeting others like it along the way. He followed these to a bony ridge, hesitating when a soft groan bloomed in the darkness, and then continued until his palm rested against warm skin. He had felt where the bony appendage plunged into flesh and knew his hand was splayed on Malfoy's back.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, moving closer to what he assumed was a very low bed.

"Hurt? Yes."

"Where?"

"...inside," the hoarse voice explained with grudging reluctance. Harry wondered if it hurt him very much to speak. "Outside."

"I wish I could help," Harry said truthfully, gently rubbing the bit of back he could reach. He felt awkward, as if he was going about this comforting bit completely wrong, but he didn't know what else to do at the moment. He let his hands slide up towards Malfoy's neck, feeling the muscles tense. Instead of hair, he found more feathers atop Malfoy's head.

"Oh," he breathed in surprise, his fingers trailing down the side of Malfoy's face. It felt wrong; instead of smooth skin, he encountered hard, raised lines, as if there was a webbing of scars. His hand was just curving over what seemed to be a long, sharp _beak_ when Malfoy wrenched himself away.

"Monster!" The cry was layered, the call of an injured bird crackling over the pained voice of a human.

"No, no." Determined, Harry reached out again, hoping that the beak wouldn't rip his arm open or nip his fingers. "Please, Malfoy. I won't hurt you, I promise."

He was seized so quickly, he didn't have time to yell before he found himself flat on his back. It wasn't a bed, he found, just piles of blankets and pillows and, of course, feathers.

"Hurt," Malfoy hissed from above him. "Hurt _you_."

Harry took a deep breath. "If you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn't have helped me the other day. Malfoy, I've known you for seven years or so. You might be a great prat, but you're not a monster."

"Fool," Malfoy muttered and then his own fingers were pressing against Harry's cheek, feeling along his lips and chin. Harry expected his usual urge to skitter away from the touch, but he lay still... actually enjoying it. It was completely mad; Malfoy's fingers were changed as well; when his hand curled to stroke Harry's cheek, they seemed so knobbly at the joints and he suspected that they were clawed at the tips.

"Pretty fool." Malfoy shifted, pushing Harry's thighs further open with his knees, the fingers of one hand tented on Harry's chest. The feathers whispered around them and Harry could feel them tickling along his sides. "Touch... you. Hurts less."

"Okay." Harry bit his lip and then put his hands on Draco's cheeks, feeling the ruined skin and the long beak begin to recede. Draco sighed loudly; it was the sound of a man who had finally found some wondrous relief. The feathers shuddered and then rained over them.

"Your wings!" Harry reached around him, hands frantically searching, but there was nothing but bare, smooth back. Malfoy flinched when Harry's touch happened upon the curve of his buttocks; he was naked, Harry realized and heat rushed to his face at the thought.

"They will return," Malfoy said in his normal, slightly nasal voice. "They always do," he finished bitterly. "But I suppose you'll think I deserve all this pain, Potter. And how _just_ it is that the person who completely alleviates the agony of the transformation is _you_."

He tried to hurl himself away like before, now probably with the aim of summoning some clothes and leaving Harry alone in the dark, but Harry hauled him back and held onto him tightly, holding him the way he imagined someone would hold their ailing lover. Malfoy reared back and struggled mightily; his strength must have been increased by his new Veela nature, because it was like Harry was hanging onto a furious dragon; he grimly wrapped his legs around Malfoy's waist, and hung onto his neck for dear life.

Malfoy's mouth landed on his, hard and demanding. His attempts to escape turned into earnest thrusting against Harry, grinding their groins together. Harry gasped and Malfoy's tongue invaded his mouth, licking his tongue and curling around Harry's surprised moans.

"Malfoy," Harry keened in the darkness as Draco licked his throat. The shed feathers rustled with their frantic movements and Malfoy's cock pulsed against his, the front of Harry's trousers becoming damp as Malfoy's come soaked into it. Harry bucked up, his cock rigid in his pants and cried out as the feathers rubbed against the skin of his exposed sides, from where Malfoy had yanked up his shirt almost past his nipples.

They both lay there for a very long while afterward, breathing hard. It was only when Malfoy began moving away that Harry realized he had been reclining comfortably in his arms.

"I--"

"Don't speak, Potter," Malfoy snapped, but he sounded too tired to put any bite into it; he settled nearby, not touching Harry but close enough. "Let me sleep for a bit and then we'll figure this out soon."

"Fine." Harry sat up, adjusting his rumpled clothes, but one of Malfoy's hand clamped onto his upper arm. Harry turned his head and looked, but saw nothing in that pitch-black room. He wondered if Malfoy could see _him_ in the dark.

"You must stay," Draco said softly.

Without a word, Harry settled back onto the curiously affectionate feathers. Draco's hand still rested on his arm.

He let it remain there as they slept.

 _fin_


End file.
